


South China Sea

by tabaqui



Series: South China Sea [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: J-Squared, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Somewhere in the South China Sea, June, 1969</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>They finally gave us some real news, Mama. The captain just got on the loudspeaker a little bit ago and told us we'll be in Vietnam in about two days.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	South China Sea

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite historical time, and a war I've always been fascinated (and repulsed) by. I've done my best, via research, to make this as true-to-life and respectful of these soldiers as possible. Originally posted in November of 2008.
> 
> Although Kane/Boreanaz are listed in the 'relationships', their appearance in the fic itself is brief.

  
_Somewhere in the South China Sea, June, 1969  
  
They finally gave us some real news, Mama. The captain just got on the loudspeaker a little bit ago and told us we'll be in Vietnam in about two days. We're landing at a place called 'Dunang'? Something like that. I don't know how to spell it. Maybe Sissy and you could look it up on the map.  
  
I know there's a lot of crazy stuff going on in Vietnam but I'm kinda excited. I just been so ~~dam~~ dang bored on the ship. Nothing to do but run and pushups and play cards and watch the sailors clean stuff.  
  
I'm scared, but I feel like I'm going crazy here, so being scared is almost gonna be worth it. I promise I'll be careful.  
  
Love, Jared  
  
  
P.S. It's actually spelled 'Da Nang'. I saw some Vietnamese written down, it's got all kinds of little marks and stuff all over the words. I don't guess I'll ever learn to read it, not like Spanish. But I know a couple words now. Most of the ones the guys here already know are the bad ones.  
  
All we been doing since we got here is train and train and train. I thought I was done with that in basic! It don't seem like they know what to do with us, so they just run us ragged every day. They say we get paid tomorrow, and that's good. I really need some toothpaste.  
  
They say we'll get sent to our assignments in the next couple days, but they been saying that for days so I guess all I can do is wait and see. I miss you all, but mostly I miss my dogs and showers that last longer than three minutes._  
  
  
  
Jensen rolled over on his cot and yawned. The sleeping bag he used for padding was sour under his nose, stiff with sweat and dirt and he grimaced and levered himself up. Swung his legs over the side and pushed his face into his hands, scrubbing. His cheeks prickled with stubble, and sweat was already beading along his upper lip and hairline.  
  
"Sarge! Hey, Sarge!!"  
  
"What!" Jensen coughed – fumbled for the canteen hanging on the peg over his head. He unscrewed the cap and took a couple of long gulps of warm, stale water.  
  
"Sar'nt Ackles, you up?"  
  
Cooper hung in the doorway, forearms up on the stacked sandbags that made the hooch's walls, bristly head just clearing the corrugated tin roof.  
  
"I'm up, I'm fuckin' up!"  
  
"Don't fuck up, Sarge." Cooper grinned and Jensen picked up a balled-up t-shirt and fired it at him. It went wide.  
  
"Fuck do you want, Cooper?"  
  
"Lieutenant says we got new guys comin' in today, he needs you to brief 'em and stuff."  
  
"Oh, fuck me. Why don't he do it?"  
  
"He says his foot hurts."  
  
"Stupid pussy motherfucker," Jensen muttered, and Cooper scooped up the t-shirt and flung it back. It was glued into a rough ball by mud, sweat and semen and Jensen batted it irritably aside. "Christ, okay. Lemme shave –"  
  
"Lieutenant says ETA on the chopper's five minutes."  
  
"God." Jensen looked down at his mud-encrusted boots, the dry patches of iron-red on his knees, and the moons of black under his fingernails. "Gimme some God damn coffee, Corporal Cooper, or I'll make you clean this fuckin' hooch with a toothbrush."  
  
"Sir, yes sir, Sar'nt." Cooper waved a half-assed salute in Jensen's direction and Jensen took another long drink out of his canteen.  
  
Just another wonderful day in the glorious Republic of Vietnam.  
  
  
  
Jensen managed to stagger up to the landing pad in four minutes, jaw unshaved and his boots still a wreck. The hands that were wrapped around the dented tin cup, though, were clean and the mint of his toothpaste clashed nastily with the boiled-lead bitterness of the coffee in the cup. Tasted like whoever had made this pot hadn't bothered dumping out the dregs of the last one.  
  
The familiar _whupwhupwhup_ of a Huey grew steadily louder through the humid air, and a moment later a chopper sliced in over the hills, pitched over on its nose and moving fast.  
  
"Kane, you crazy bastard," Jensen mumbled. He lifted his mug in salute to the pilot and then turned around, hunching down and putting his palm over the mug's rim as the rotor kicked up a whirlwind of red dust and desiccated grass blades. Jensen stayed, back turned, until the chopper kicked back up into the air with a roar. Only then did he turn and eye the new troops.  
  
Two were leaning over, hands on knees, puking into the dust. The other three were standing in a huddle, duffels at their feet and a dazed look in their eyes. Flying with Kane could do that to you.  
  
"Marines! Atten-shun!" Jensen yelled, and they jumped and flopped like puppies, scrambling for their duffels and forming up into a ragged line. One was noticeably taller than the others. Jensen stalked toward them, watching the way their gazes flicked to him and away, nervous as hell. "Welcome to beautiful, sunny Ba Lien, Vietnam! I'm Sergeant Ackles and I'll be your worst fuckin' nightmare." Jensen took a gulp of the coffee and swallowed hard, lip curling in disgust. "Hope like fuck one of you assholes knows how to make coffee."  
  
The line shifted, and the tall one half raised his hand. "Sergeant Ackles, I can –"  
  
"That was a rhetorical question, Marine!" Jensen got up in the guy's space, irritated that he was at least a couple inches taller. "Do you know what 'rhetorical' means?"  
  
The soldier's gaze actually came down, meeting Jensen's, and Jensen felt a little coil of _something_ in his gut.  
  
"Sir, rhetorical means –"  
  
"That was rhetorical, too!" Jensen yelled. The kid gulped, eyes snapping to somewhere over Jensen's head and Jensen stepped back, not happy about getting a crick in his neck. "What's your name, Marine?"  
  
"Sir, Padalecki, sir!"  
  
"Watch yourself, Padalicky."  
  
"Sir, yessir!" Jensen's head was pounding, his scalp itched, and he needed to change his socks. He did _not_ want to do fucking new guy orientation. "Get your gear and shag ass, people. I haven't had my fucking breakfast yet." Jensen turned on his heel and strode back toward the camp while the five recruits scrambled for their duffels and trotted after him.  
  
  
  
  
  
_Patrol, Annam Highlands, somewhere North of the 16th parallel, August, 1969  
  
Everybody said it'd be really rainy here, but mostly we get fog. It's kind of creepy. It comes down the hills and just sits in the low spots and makes everything look weird, like there could be all kinds of stuff out there, hiding. It makes everything sound funny, too. One of the other Marines that I came in with, Loeb, he thought he saw VC out there one morning and just let loose with his weapon. Scared the ~~sh~~ heck out of all of us and he got chewed out by the Sarge for almost fifteen minutes. But I get why he did it. We all just feel like...like we're being watched. And just sitting around doing nothing makes you jumpy. I guess I don't want to be shot at, but there's only so many ditches you can dig, you know? Guess I'm a ditch-digger after all, Daddy._  
  
  
It just fucking figured that JT'd be good with the kids. Jensen stood looking on in amused irritation as JT ran to catch up, waving over his shoulder at the swarm of knobby-kneed little kids that were shouting after him. Grinning little kids with sticky fingers and full mouths, sharing the c-rat fruitcake and cheese spread and crackers that JT had begged, borrowed, and probably stolen from camp before they set out.  
  
Hell, nobody liked the fruit cake, anyway.  
  
"JT, what'd I fuckin' tell you? Leave the damn kids alone and keep with your unit."  
  
"Sorry, Sarge," JT said. But he wasn't sorry. He was grinning as wide as the kids, jaws moving. A moment later he pursed his lips and blew out an uneven beige bubble of Chiclets gum that Jensen, on pure instinct, hooked right out of his mouth.  
  
"What'd I say about the fuckin' gum?"  
  
"You said if I got shot and choked to death on Chiclets you'd tell my mama I died on the crapper." JT hitched his pack up a little higher – scratched at his temple with the sight of his M-16, grinning down at Jensen through dusty-brown lashes. Stupid grin a mile wide, all white teeth and dimples and Jensen wanted to.... Well, something. "You wouldn't do anything that mean to my mama, would you, Sar'nt Ackles?"  
  
"Don't count on it JT, you dumb ass. Get goin'."  
  
"Yessir," JT said, and broke into a trot, catching up to the tail-end of the patrol line. Jensen watched him move, all long muscle and bone, red, white and blue star on the back of his helmet with 'Lone Star' in wobbly script above and below.  
  
"' _Yessir_ ', my ass," Jensen muttered. He looked down at the wad of gum on his finger for a long moment and the shrugged and shoved it into his mouth. No point in letting it go to waste.  
  
  
  
  
_Base camp 'Pebble Beach', Annam Highlands near the Cai river, November, 1969  
  
  
Please don't tell Mama, Sissy, but, I got hurt. It's nothing much. A piece of metal went into my back and I had to be in bed for a couple days. Don't tell her, though. I'm pretty much healed up now, you can barely see the mark. The comics you sent sure came in handy, though. I thought I'd go crazy from boredom, laying on that stupid cot.  
  
I got ice cream while I was laid up. The Sarge got it for me special. Just plain vanilla but I haven't had it since basic. It was really good. I hope you're being good and taking care of Mama and Daddy. I know they got Jeff but he gets going on his books and stuff and kinda forgets, so you make sure you keep an eye out, OK? I'm counting on you, Sissy.  
  
I sure do miss you. Never thought I'd see the day when I'd miss my little brat sister.  
  
Love you, too. JT  
  
P.S. Stay out of my room. I know how I left  everything._  
  
  
  
"Hey Sarge, you got some more ice cream for me?"  
  
"They didn't have any this time, you gold brick." Jensen dropped his fatigue shirt in a sweaty lump on the ground – collapsed down next to JT on the ratty blanket he'd spread out on the lee-side of the hooch. Loeb's little transistor radio was playing a tinny _Up, Up and Away_ , and Jensen shook his head at the saccharine lyrics. JT's booted feet were in the red dirt – his head and arms pillowed on the sandbags and Jensen took a minute to appreciate the picture. JT watched him the whole time, cat-slanted eyes half-hidden behind his lashes, the long stretch of his tanned back baking in the sun. The shrapnel-marks were still visible, dull-red pocks from shoulders to hips, none bigger than the tip of Jensen's pinkie but over all, pretty impressive. "What'd Doc say?"  
  
"Said I was good to go." JT hunched his shoulders and then pushed them down again. "They itch."  
  
"Mean's they're healing." Jensen rolled over a little onto his left hip, fishing down deep into his pocket. "Got you something better than ice cream, actually." JT propped himself up on his elbows and Jensen finally dragged the little baggie out of his pocket and held it up, waggling it back and forth. Inside were about thirty joints, ten to a bundle, tightly rolled in pale-cream paper and then wrapped in Saran wrap.  
  
JT snorted through his nose and lay back down. "You didn't get those for me. You _always_ get party packs when you go to Da Nang."  
  
"Yeah, but look –" Jensen opened the baggie and reached down under the joints and pulled out a single, much longer joint – nearly twice as long as the regular joints. "I got a 100 just for you."  
  
"What's a hundred?" JT was back up on one elbow, twisting so he was on one hip, the blanket rucking up under him.  
  
"Soaked in opium. Man, it'll just mellow you out so good.... Make you sleep like a baby." JT looked down at that – picked at a hole in the blanket, his mouth going thin and tight. "JT?"  
  
"Sarge, just...I don't...."  
  
"Yeah, you do." Jensen shoved the party packs away and got out his lighter – lit the 100 and took a small hit. "Sometimes, we all do, man. It's okay."  
  
  
_Eight days earlier, half way down some fucking mountain or another. JT cursing and slapping at himself, flak jacket and shirt slung over his pack, about a hundred tan-red ants swarming his shoulders and chest because he'd brushed up against the wrong branch. Down on his knees in the brush and leaves, del Sarto down next to him, knocking the little bastards off as fast as he can.  
  
Loeb acting like an idiot, like always. Jumping around JT like a little rat-dog, singing. 'Here she comes now, say, Mony, Mony.... Shoot 'em down, turn around, come on, Mony...'  
  
Jensen looking back and barking for everybody to stop a second, heading back up the trail, sweating, dirt under his nails, grabbing at tree roots to heave himself up another foot or two. Loeb sees him coming and starts doing this 'oooh, you're in trouble now, JT!' routine, sticking his fingers in JT's face and JT, eyes streaming from the stinging bites, pissed off and not thinking just gives him a shove, sends him tripping and sprawling and **boom**.  
  
Bouncing fucking Betty, going off six ways to Sunday and Loeb's down screaming, JT's flat on his belly, back a bloody mess, del Sarto's got half his face peppered with shrapnel, gaping in wide-eyed shock. They have to haul Loeb and del Sarto back up the mountain on ponchos, JT stumbling along in the rear, his back too raw to carry his gear.  
  
Cooper on the radio and then medevac swooping in, Ugly Angels like a blessing from God and Jensen's last view of JT was him hunched over Loeb's thrashing figure, face tear-streaked and puffy from ant bites, hands covered in blood._  
  
So now JT had nightmares, because Loeb didn't make it and he figured it was his fault. Jensen'd been there, seen his share. He had a tally in his head – on his soul – that he figured he'd pay for, one way or another. Here or in the hereafter.  
  
The smoke was hot and sweet, like burnt brown sugar and Jensen offered the 100, bumping JT's sun-warm shoulder with his knuckles. "C'mon, man – gotta hit the fucking trail tonight. You need to sleep a while."  
  
"Sarge..." JT sat up abruptly, edging away. Locking long arms around fatigue-clad knees, staring furiously into the mid-afternoon sky of blameless, robin's egg blue. "I messed up. I can't pretend I didn't, okay? I can't just –" JT gestured wildly with his hand, long fingers and slim, tanned wrist – little braided cord of elephant-tail hair he'd picked up somewhere sliding loosely over the knob of bone.  
  
"Can't what? Can't do a little smoke, get a little sleep?" Jensen rubbed his hand back hard through his hair, knowing what he had to say – hating it. "You think you sitting up all night, or waking everybody up screaming is doing a damn fucking thing for the squad? You think you're any good to 'em out in the fuckin' bush half asleep and moping?" JT was staring at him, eyes wide with hurt – with guilt. Jaw clenched and his chin wobbling, liquid-bright eyes and Jensen hated himself. "Get the fuck over it, Padalecki."  
  
JT jerked his gaze away – twisted his whole self away, putting his back to Jensen. Shoulders drawn up and shaking, fists clenching in the blanket. And then he was curling down over his knees, letting out a wordless keen of pure grief. Jensen sighed – reached over and grabbed the back of his neck and pulled. Pulled against the automatic resistance until JT's forehead was pillowed on his thigh and Jensen could rub and stroke the fine, clipped hairs at the nape of JT's neck.  
  
"I didn't m-mean to! I didn't know he'd – I should've juss-st ignored him, Sarge, should'a just...I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to...."  
  
JT's voice died off into sobs, rasping and ugly, and Jensen just sat there, rubbing his neck. Feeling tears and spit soak his thigh – feeling the hard tremors go through the body next to him, wracking and pitiful. "I know, JT, I know...believe me, I fucking know. But you didn't kill him, man, you _didn't_. This place, this...fucked-up shithole killed him, honey, and you gotta hold onto that, you gotta remember that all the damn time. And you gotta just...let. It. Go." Jensen hauled JT up – picked up JT's discarded t-shirt and roughly mopped the tear-wet face. "Let it go, JT, or you're gonna fuck up and...and I can't have that, okay?"  
  
JT sniffed – dragged in a hitching breath, and then another. Jerked the t-shirt out of Jensen's hands and rubbed at his nose, hand shaking. "You got a crush on me, S-Sarge?"  
  
Jensen laughed softly – picked the 100 up from where he'd dropped it and relit it. "You know I do, big boy. You wanna go steady?"  
  
"God, you're such a f-freak," JT muttered, but he laughed, too. Shaky and small, but laughter, and Jensen handed him the joint.  
  
"I reckon I'm gonna get you home to Texas alive and kicking, JT, so you better do what I say, you hear?"  
  
JT took a long drag, holding the smoke in, his eyes bright hazel-gold behind the red rims, his cheeks flushed with emotion and sun. He nodded – opened his mouth and spoke through the plume of smoke. "I hear, Sarge. I hear you."  
  
  
  
  
_Patrol, Annam Highlands, My Hoa hamlet, December, 1969.  
  
  
I think you'd like the people here, Mama. It's not like they said on the news. They're mostly farmers, and really poor. Nobody has a toilet or a kitchen like we do, they cook over a little fire and have outhouses. I guess Grandpap would feel right at home!  
  
I try and save up my candy and stuff for the kids, they don't get a lot of treats. But they look like...just like any kids, you know? Like any kids.  
  
We're moving out again, so I'll finish this up later. Sarge says maybe we'll get to have a few days off around Christmas, maybe even go to Da Nang or Okinawa, eat some real food. Keep your fingers crossed for me!_  
  
  
  
The Mama-san was screaming – hell, they all were. Women and girls and little kids, screaming and begging and crying. Clutching at Cooper's arm, at the hem of Jensen's shirt and the web belts that held his gear. And Simmons – Simmons was losing it, starting to scream back just as loud, shoving and pushing with rifle-barrel and his boot, smacking one old woman in the back of the head so that she went to her knees.  
  
An equally old man tried to intervene, hands up, and Simmons shoved him down hard. The old man popped up like an arthritic Jack-in-the-box, talking a mile a minute, his cracked old voice quavering and high. Jensen had learned enough, in his year and a half in country, to know what he was saying.  
  
" _Why are you here? Why are you here? We don't want you here, we don't need you here, we just want to live! Go away, leave us alone, we're not hurting you, go away, just go away!_ "  
  
"Shut up!" Simmons screamed. He shot a couple rounds up into the air and everyone dove for cover, yelling. The women yanked the kids into a knot of ragged black and mud-colored tunics, covering their eyes, their mouths. A little girl in a tattered _Pepsi_ t-shirt and nothing else wailed as she wet herself and Jesus Christ, this was becoming one amazing cluster-fuck.  
  
"Simmons! Shut it down!" Jensen yelled, and Simmons wheeled around to glare at him.  
  
"Leave 'em alone! Just leave 'em alone, they're just scared –" JT, wading in where he wasn't wanted, del Sarto trying to pull him back, Cooper and Montgomery and Jergin all yelling, too. Waving weapons around, pushing and shoving and screaming at each other and Jensen felt sick.  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with them, Sergeant! What the fuck is wrong with them! We're here to help and they're fucking lying to our faces!" Simmons was red-faced, shaking, and Jensen strode toward him. Reaching out for him, intent on jerking him away and calming this whole mess down and then the old Papa-san, he pushed forward again, hands reaching and grabbing onto Simmons' arm and Simmons just turned and _pop pop pop_.  
  
"Oh, fuck, oh, man, why'd you do that? Why the fuck'd you do that?" Jefferson was pulling at Simmons, slapping his rifle down and getting a double-fisted grip on his flak jacket, jerking him away from....  
  
" _Marines_! Get the fuck up the trail, _now_! Jefferson, you keep a hold of that asshole; Cooper, move it, you're in charge until I catch up, now _move it, move it_!"  
  
Like a pack of discouraged dogs, the squad moved up off the road, jostling and staring, Simmons still shouting. JT stayed. JT was down on one knee in the mud, his fingers to the old man's throat but fuck, he was gone. Half his face was gone and JT's hand was shaking so hard he couldn't have felt a pulse if there'd been one there to feel.  
  
"JT, get the fuck out of here."  
  
"What are you gonna do? Sarge, what are you gonna do? What the hell –"  
  
"Padalecki –" Jensen hauled the other man up by his web belt – shoved him back a step. Something was tickling his face and Jensen wiped at it irritably. His hand came away smeared with blood and...other things and he blinked, grimacing.  
  
"We can't just do that! We can't just – I mean damnit, Sarge, the VC come in here at night, you fucking _know_ they come in here at night and tell 'em they'll kill everybody and then we come in the daytime and we.... We're supposed to be the good guys! We're supposed to be the fucking good guys, Sarge!"  
  
Tears standing in his eyes, nose running – the look of hurt bewilderment on his face more than Jensen could take.  
  
"Marine, get your fucking ass with the squad and shut the fuck up before I put you up on charges. You hear me?" JT blinked – opened his mouth and Jensen pushed in close all in a rush, feeling his lips pulling back in a snarl. "I said, do you hear me? You fucking _hear me_ , Private?"  
  
JT jerked away, taking a fast swipe at his nose with his wrist. "Yeah, I hear you." JT started to turn away – swung back, frowning. "I hear you not _giving_ a damn –"  
  
Too fucking much. Jensen _reacted_ , solid left hook, straight to JT's jaw and the man staggered back a step, silent. Finally fucking silent, the hurt draining away and fury replacing it. " _Move out_ , Marine. Right the fuck now," Jensen growled. JT turned abruptly and marched away. Cooper and Montgomery were up the top of the slight rise the road took, watching, and Jensen just shook his head. Turned around, wiping his throbbing hand over his face again, the blood and matter sticky now, stinking of iron. Iron and gunpowder and the sweat-stink of fear and Jensen was so, so tired of it. Tired of it all.  
  
The people were mostly silent, huddled on the ground. The kids still snuffling and whimpering, but the women all staring. The old Mama-san cradling the dead man, dazed black eyes staring up at him.  
  
"Shit. I didn't...I'm fucking sorry, okay? I'm so...God damn sorry. _Xin lôi, xin lôi._ "  
  
Then he did the only thing he could do – he turned and walked away.  
  
  
It took JT three days to work himself up to a confrontation, and he started by ambushing Jensen around back of the ammo shack and clocking him one in the mouth. Jensen reeled back, stinging pain in his lip, his head ringing and JT stood there, panting in rage.  
  
"Jesus, fuck –"  
  
"Shut up! You answer me. What the hell are we doing over here if we're not gonna help these people, huh? What's the damn point if we're just gonna – march into their villages and their houses and terrorize them? Tell 'em to give up their neighbors and tell us who the enemy is or we'll – we'll set their house on fire!"  
  
JT threw his hands into the air – stomped away and then stomped back, sweat staining the back of his sleeveless fatigue shirt, dirt on his knees and mud on his boots. Jensen propped his hands on his knees and just hung there, his lip dripping into the dirt. Scarlet blood and rust-red dirt, little beads the dry earth sucked right up. "JT –"  
  
"Shut up! Don't make excuses, Sarge! Don't give me damn – double-talk bullshit you learned in – in some damn _Sergeant_ school, okay? Just tell me! How in hell can we win this, how can we win this if we're no better than they are, huh? We're no better, Sarge!"  
  
Jensen looked up at JT, hands still on his knees. "You gonna let me talk?"  
  
" _God_!"  
  
"Okay, okay." Jensen stood up – blotted his lip with the back of his hand, grimacing at the sting of sweat in the cut. Dirt in there, too, probably; looked like JT'd been warming up punching trees or something. "We _are_ better, JT. You know we are –"  
  
"It didn't look like that the other day, Sarge! Simmons –"  
  
"He's a damn hair-triggered bastard, JT, and you know it. If he's not shootin' up the fuckin' jungle he's swingin' on his own squad or beatin' up some fucking hooker."  
  
"That doesn't matter! You should have stopped him, Sarge, you should have –"  
  
"Damnit, JT, I am not fucking God!" Jensen _screamed_ , loud enough to startle something in the tall weeds – loud enough to probably bring Cooper running, if he was anywhere nearby. Loud enough to make JT jerk back, eyes wide.  
  
"I'm not God, and I'm not the fucking President, I'm just another God damn soldier!" Jensen stalked forward, driving JT back step by step until he bumped into the corrugated side of the ammo shack. "My only job – my _only_ job – is to keep my men alive. You understand? I'm sorry for those people, I'm sorry Simmons lost it and shot that old man but there's nothing I can do about it! HQ told us to look for fucking VC at My Hoa and we looked! And if somebody died, well, it doesn't fucking matter because it wasn't one of _us_!"  
  
JT was breathing hard, his face inches from Jensen's. So close that Jensen could feel the warm puffs of air – could smell the mingled scents of sweat and smoke and industrial-strength bug repellant. Sweat like a sheen of oil over JT's skin, little beads of it at his hairline and dust in his hair, making the dark-brown strands reddish-gold in the light.  
  
"It wasn't one of us, JT. That's – that's all I care about. You got me? It wasn't...it wasn't you, and that's...I don't care about the rest." Jensen could feel JT's boots, pressed up against his own. He could feel JT's knee pushing into his – could feel the rapid rise and fall of JT's chest, his belly. Pressed so fucking close and he had no idea how, or when. Just... JT, right there. So damn _alive_ , his eyes wide and his lips chapped – bitten. The chain of his dog tags twisted, sweat gleaming along his collarbones, streak of reddish dust along his jaw.  
  
"Sarge?" JT's voice was thin and a little hoarse – unsteady – and Jensen couldn't tear his gaze off JT's mouth.  
  
"It's Jensen, you should call –" And then JT leaned in those last couple of inches and kissed him.  
  
  
  
  
  
_Base camp 'Pebble Beach', Annam Highlands near the Cai river, February, 1970  
  
I'm sorry about not writing Mama. We been really busy over here. To answer your question, I got to go to Da Nang a couple days after Christmas. Me and some guys from my squad. It was okay. We didn't get to see too much of the city, but I got to sit on the beach for a while, that was nice. I'll try and write more, we're just really busy._  
  
  
  
The bar was called the Red Rooster, with an actual rooster in a cage over the door, pet of the owner. It shit on you if you lingered and maybe, Jensen thought, that was the whole point of it being there. So he hustled JT on inside, making him push through the crowd to the bar. The Rooster was mostly a Marine bar, and it was usually packed: soldiers shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, drinking and smoking opium and getting the half-naked bar girls to sit on their laps.  
  
Put your hand under their skirt for a dollar – put your cock under there for two. There were rooms upstairs that rented in fifteen minute increments, some of the girls were pretty, pretty boys and Jensen had no fucking idea why he'd brought JT here.  
  
No idea at all.  
  
Kane had come with them, locking his Huey down and shedding his helmet and flack jacket – telling his crew to be back by Wednesday. New Years – three days. Now he was over by the stairs, negotiating a room with the weirdly hulking Montagnard man Mama-san employed as a bouncer. His club foot had evidently kept him from either army. Jensen shouted over the noise and the jukebox for a couple of beers – turned and leaned against the polished bamboo and watched JT watch the crowd. His gaze was never still, jerking wildly from shadow to light to noise to motion, jungle-trained and hair triggered. Take a few beers to settle him down. Beers, or something.  
  
"I'm gonna go to hell. Straight to fucking hell. Or Leavenworth."  
  
"What?" JT was shouting, eyes bright – grinning in the smoky gloom and Jensen couldn't help grinning back.  
  
"I said, I'm going to hell!"  
  
JT stared at him for a heartbeat, something sad and profoundly _knowing_ darkening his expression. "We all are, J... Sarge. We all are."  
  
"Ah, shit, man –"  
  
"Oh, wow. What in hell –?"  
  
Jensen turned, following JT's gaze to the door. Six or seven men stood there, dressed in custom jungle fatigues, stuff they'd had a tailor stitch up just for them. Extra pockets, modified cuts – hand-made boots that didn't make a sound as the group walked through the suddenly hushed Rooster to the bar. Everyone – made way.  
  
"Jensen?"  
  
"Marine recon, JT. You just stay out of their way." These men had been in too long – seen too much. Thrown into the worst situations, asked to do impossible things. And they kept coming back for more. Jensen knew only one of them personally, and he had no desire to know more. They scared the living hell out of him.  
  
Some of them had their hair shaved up on the sides, stiff Mohawks thick with dust. Others had their hair grown out long, braided or twisted into dreadlocks. One guy even had a double triangle of dots tattooed under his left eye. Jensen had heard it was from gunpowder – something blowing up too close, stippling his face and he'd had a fellow Marine make it even. Jensen had no clue how he got past the regs on it – probably because his CO knew he didn't give a shit, and knew better than to call him on it.  
  
The men didn't even order – Mama-san was already lining up shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey; Jim Beam that she must have paid an arm and a leg for on the black market. The one with the tattoo poured – they all drank – and then Kane was pushing past Jensen, going straight up to the Marine with the marks under his eye. Putting his hand out and running his fingers down the neck of the whiskey bottle.  
  
"Gonna share that, Boreanaz?"  
  
"Think I should?" the man replied, his voice smoke-rough and rusty. Unused, maybe. Or used too much, in all the wrong ways.  
  
"I got a room says you should."  
  
Boreanaz lifted his gaze to the walkway that edged the second floor – dropped it down again where it lingered for too many uncomfortable moments on Jensen. "That your buddy? The famous Ackles?"  
  
Kane shrugged – nodded – and Boreanaz lifted a finger. Took the second bottle of Beam from the crabbed old woman behind the bar and slung his arm carelessly around Kane's neck. "Let's go up. Bring your friends. I'll stand 'em a round."  
  
"Come up," Kane said, passing, a dark, fevered look in his eyes and Jensen hastily drained his beer.  
  
"C'mon, JT. Real whiskey in that bottle."  
  
JT followed in Jensen's wake – caught up to him on the stairs and leaned in close, lips just brushing Jensen's ear. "That guy gives me the willies."  
  
"Me, too," Jensen breathed. But they went up, anyway.  
  
  
"Ah, fuck... _Christ_...do that...again, do that –"  
  
"Shut up, Chris-ti-an..." Boreanaz's voice was a rumbling growl, thick with opium and whiskey, and Jensen shuddered all over. Twisted his fingers in JT's sweat-soaked hair, trying for a better grip in the too-short strands. Licked into JT's willing mouth, bare foot pushing against the reed-matted floor, bare thigh and hip sliding against JT's, sweat oiling them – easing the way.  
  
JT's heel dug into Jensen's thigh, his palm hot and heavy in the small of Jensen's back. He turned his head to gasp in a ragged lungful of air, his gaze roving dazedly over the room. It had started to rain, sometime. Heavy, wet air gusted in through the open windows, thick with ozone and the wet-rot-brine of the sea. Rain leaked in through the roof – dripped down the wire that supported a single, sputtering light bulb. It swung above them, sending shadows ticking over the tawny curve of JT's shoulder. Back and forth, back and forth, metronome of light in distinct counterpoint to the stuttering creaks of the mattress that swung in its iron-spring cradle. Rain spattered down from it, _tick tick tick_ across the floor.  
  
Boreanaz's back curved like a tooth, ivory and tawny-tan, criss-crossed by scars. His fist was in Kane's hair and he pulled him up and back, fingers and thumb pinching Kane's jaw, his mouth on Kane's mouth with brutal insistence. Swallowing the animal noises with teeth and tongue.  
  
"Is this...real?" JT's eyes were wide – his pupils huge. He looked bewildered – almost agonized. "Jensen, is this...is –?"  
  
"Yeah, it's real...JT, Christ, lemme...please, let me...."  
  
"Oh, _God_...."  
  
Jensen caught JT's mouth again, his hand slipping down from nape to shoulder to rib – over JT's belly to his cock. Jensen could feel the calluses from gun and shovel on his own flesh as he pressed them together, hips surging forward in mindless, blind intent. The bulb flickered and then popped in a scatter of water and glass and then there was only the low, ocher smolder of the candle on the table and the tiger's-eye gleam of JT's eyes.  
  
  
  
  
_Patrol, Bach Ma mountains, Northern Thua Thien Hue province, east of Phu Loc, March, 1970.  
  
  
There was some heavy action here the other night. Well, not here here, it was about three miles away. We thought we might have to go support, but it was over before they decided. I could see a Spooky, that's a helicopter, Sissy, standing on a column of tracers like a roman candle. Death without ugliness, from that high up.  
  
I guess I envy the pilots and the gunners. They don't see it so close up. They don't smell it or hear it. I learned some more Vietnam language, Mama. I could hear the wounded NVA yelling and screaming and I asked Cooper what they were saying. He said they were praying to God. Yelling for their mamas.  
  
I don't know what I'm doing over here, Mama. I really don't._  
  
  
"Move, move, God damnit, _run_!" Jensen shoved at a shoulder – a back. Wrenched his boot free of the sucking mud of the paddy and pushed. Up and over the dyke, silty water warm in his mouth, instinctive duck-and-cover at the whine of incoming.  
  
A mortar _boomed_ somewhere right of him, fountain of earth and water and shrapnel and Jensen staggered to his feet and ran. "Let's go, let's go, _Simmons_ , Montgomery, go, go –"  
  
"Ammo up, ammo up!" Jergin was screaming for rounds and Jensen saw JT bolt out of the treeline and fling himself down beside Jergin, ripping at the bandoleers of ammo that crisscrossed his chest. A moment more and then the high-speed _brrraaap!_ of the M60 cut through the air.  
  
Jensen skidded down the side of an old impact crater and huddled there, trying to see who was where without getting his head blown off. Rifle-fire was coming in, hard and steady from the south-west and they had at least two mortars, maybe three, shells dropping with regularity all along the tree line. Branches rained down on Jergin and JT hauled them off him – looked around and stood up.  
  
"JT, get the fuck _down_ ," Jensen screamed, and JT leapt like a fucking deer, running straight for Jensen and his meager cover. He pulled up too fast, slipped, and went down flat on his ass on the rim, flopping down the shallow wall and coming to rest in a tangle of gear and long limbs at the bottom. "You fucking asshole!"  
  
"They all freak out when they see me, I'm too tall to be real and they can't shoot me," JT gasped. He panted, licking his mouth, and Jensen brought his rifle up to snipe at whatever was moving in the reeds off to his left.  
  
"Where the hell is Cooper? We need air support in here and we need it fucking now."  
  
"He's over there –"  
  
"Ammo up, ammo fucking up, God damnit!" Jergin was shooting, steady and sane, but his voice was cracking and the last of his rounds would be gone in less than a minute.  
  
"Jesus Christ - _Jefferson_ , del Sarto, get your fucking ammo up!"  
  
"Jefferson's down, I'll get his stuff, Sarge." JT said. He was crouched down as low as he could manage in the mud, smear of it all along his left side, sweat dripping into his eyes. He blinked and snapped his head to the side, sharp little motion that sent the sweat flying away. "Him and Smith both, I'll get it to Jergin, Cooper was right behind me over there." JT waved toward a listing banana tree and then he was up and running again, ducking and weaving and still too big a fucking target, even bent double as he was.  
  
"Shit, shit, where's the Goddamn third squad, where the fuck is Cooper - _Cooper_!"  
  
"Here, I'm here, Sarge!" Cooper popped up like a gopher from a hole, firing wildly toward the same reed-patch Jensen had targeted, and Jensen pushed himself up and out. Ran on aching legs toward Cooper and skidded down next to him among broken banana fronds and squashed, half-ripe fruit.  
  
"Get on the fuckin' box, tell 'em we need air support, tell 'em we need medevac _now_."  
  
"On it, I'm on it, Sar'nt...." Cooper clawed at his radio, freeing the handset and Jensen got up on his knees and let loose at the now-visible shapes moving up fast. " _Pebble Beach, Pebble Beach, this is Nine Iron, do you copy? Pebble Beach, do you copy?_ "  
  
Brush crashed behind them and Jensen whirled – let out a startled whoop as about half of third squad – led by Sergeant Morris – came pelting into the dappled shade of the half-fallen tree. " _Christ_ , Morris, where the hell you been?"  
  
"Fuckin' snipers up the fuckin' trail, had to do some fancy fuckin' duck-and-cover. What the hell? Intel said there wasn't nothin' here!"  
  
"Yeah, well –" Six or seven Marines let off a barrage of rifle-fire and there was the sudden _whump-crump_ of one of their own mortars, little rocket shell flying true and high and exploding with a satisfying thunder on the hill side opposite. "That'll get the bastards."  
  
"Ammo, God damnit!" Jergin again, and Jensen felt like laughing. Or crying.  
  
"Fuck, you got ammo?"  
  
"We got you. Crawford, Tile, Walczyk! Get your asses out there and resupply!"  
  
Marines moved, ammo rattling, and more fire was coming from the south, now – the rest of third squad rallying with the second, forming up a little. Jensen saw JT shift over so the new ammo could get threaded – saw them all duck down and be covered by mud-splatter from a mortar. Somebody was screaming and JT scooted sideways, hunched over and moving fast.  
  
"Corpsman, I need a corpsman!"  
  
"Shit, my corpsman's down, Jackson's down – Morris?"  
  
"Yeah, we got it. Hurley!"  
  
"JT, get the fuck down, you idiot! Help is on the way –" Jensen wanted to run over there and smack JT right down into the mud. Watched furiously as he ripped at his pack and got a field dressing loose – started hauling at the limp, mud-covered figure before him.  
  
"I'm okay," he shouted, and Jensen ground his teeth. "It's okay, Sarge, I got –"  
  
_Boom_ , so loud and so close that Jensen's ears were ringing – his vision whited out for one terrifying moment and then he was gasping in vaporized dirt and sulphur-sharp smoke, wiping furiously at his face and looking for JT. And looking, and looking and –  
  
"JT, fucking where are you, _JT_?" Cooper was screaming into his handset, blood soaking through his shoulder and Morris was up – moving – his men were moving, the ones that could. Weapons firing as they went, more coming in from behind; del Sarto leading the rest of second squad, blood on his face and throat and _where the fuck_ was JT?  
  
Jensen staggered up, shaking his head – swiping at blood and mud and bringing his rifle up in a clumsy arc. Letting off a string of shots and then stumbling – going down on one knee. Something crunched under his kneecap and he looked down. Something...red. Pulverized mass and yellow-white shards and a glint of gold. _Shit, that's Simmons, that's Simmons and his stupid gold tooth, fucking JT running out here to help Simmons...JT, where the fuck..._ " _JT_!"  
  
"H-here, I'm here, Ss-Sarge, I –"  
  
"JT?" Jensen scrabbled madly through the ragged weeds and brush – found a bloody bandage and then a canteen and then JT's hand, digging weakly at the dirt. "Shit, man, what the fuck, I _told_ you to stay...down...."  
  
"I th-think I'm okay, Sarge, I th-think I'm.... Just gimme...minute...." JT grinned crookedly up at Jensen, his face a mask of blood and mud and bits of Simmons – bits of torn leaves and bark. His helmet was knocked clean off, his pack blown open and gone to rags. His legs....  
  
"Oh fuck, fuck, JT, damnit, why don't you ever listen to me, why in fuck – _corpsman! I need a corpsman!_ " Jensen tore at his pack, looking for bandages, sulfa powder – looking at anything but the ruined pulp of JT's legs.  
  
"Ss'okay, Sarge, I just need...get my...b-breath...." JT scrabbled weakly at the ground, as if trying to push himself up and Jensen put a hand on his chest, shoving brutally at him.  
  
"Don't fucking move, you God damn idiot, fucking hell, _corpsman_!" Jensen couldn't breathe, he couldn't fucking breathe and where the fuck was the corpsman and oh God, oh God _ohGod_.  
  
"I'm here, I - _shit_ , oh shit, Sarge." Cooper crashed to his knees beside JT, eyes wide. He took one look at Jensen and then was ripping open Jackson's kit, hauling out bandages and getting to work. Screaming, Jensen realized, at him.  
  
"Ackles, God damnit, _help me_ , he's gonna bleed out, get the fucking bandages on, _wake up_ Ackles, _Jensen_ , wake the fuck up!"  
  
"I –"  
  
"Hey, Sarge, you..."  
  
"Shut up, JT, fuck –" Air seemed to punch back into Jensen's lungs and with it came the stink of gunpowder and shit and rotting mud – sweat and blood and piss and JT was white, sheen of sweat starting to sluice the mud off his face, going into shock and still trying, God damn stupid son of a bitch, to tell Jensen he was fine. Cooper was tying off bandages and screaming over his shoulder – mortars were falling like rotting fruit all around and the rattle-tat of rifle fire was thudding right through Jensen's bones. He was gonna be sick, he was gonna throw up right here and JT was gonna go septic with Jensen's half-digested beans and motherfuckers splattered all over his new bandages and –  
  
"Medevac's coming, Sarge! Sergeant! We gotta get him outta here, we gotta get him to the LZ!" Cooper was shaking him – jerking at his shirt and slapping his bloody palm into Jensen's face and Jensen snarled and pushed him away.  
  
"Fucking hell, I got it, I – shit – c'mon, JT, chopper's comin', you're gonna be fine, okay?" JT's hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown wide – mouth moving in a soundless mumble and Jensen felt fear twist in his gut. "You're gonna be okay, JT, promise, you –"  
  
"C'mon, Sarge, c'mon, get him –" Cooper was lifting JT up – cradling him – and Jensen got his hands under JT's ass and shoulder and they both staggered upright, Cooper kicking at JT's shredded pack to get it out of the way. JT's head lolled backward, neck without strength and they jolted into something like a run. Heading back through the trees – dodging Marines and trees; the sound of the fight falling rapidly away as they moved.  
  
It seemed like hours – lifetimes – and they were finally clear of the trees and coming to a halt in a burned-clear patch of jungle, stumps and charred leaves and dead grass in a wide ring. They had to go to their knees, hearts pounding and chests heaving for lungfuls of the humid, burnt-rotten air, _whupwhupwhup_ of the rotors coming closer, closer....  
  
"Sss...aar..nt...." JT muttered, and Jensen put his face right down, right into JT's.  
  
"You hush, you hear me? Just shut up and lay there and – and the choppers almost here, JT, it's almost here, it's Kane, you know he can get you home so fucking fast, he can do it, so you just lay there, you don't fucking...do anything...."  
  
JT's eyes flickered, half shut. He licked his lips and one corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying to smile. "Jen...?"  
  
"Hush, honey, _please_ , he's almost here, he's here, you're gonna be okay, I promise you, you're gonna be okay...."  
  
Then the chopper was settling with a roar and whirl of air, soot and dust and rags of grass whipping around them and suddenly more people were running in from all directions, Marines covered in blood and bandages leaning on the shoulders of other Marines, hopping and staggering and cursing. Cooper was shouting for him to move, move and Jensen was up, on his feet. Shoving his shoulder into someone's side and getting JT up onto the blood-smeared deck – getting him right under the hands of the medic who took one look at JT and shouted for help.  
  
"Sarge, we gotta get back! Sarge, c'mon, he's okay, Kane's got him –" Cooper was pulling at him, dragging him backwards and Jensen clawed at his hands.  
  
"Kane! You fly like a bat outta hell, you hear me? You hear me?"  
  
Kane was looking at him, blank, black goggled eyes and the bulge of his helmet, one hand lifted, thumbs up flashing before Cooper dragged him away. Marines piling on, somebody getting their arms under JT and pulling him close, anchoring him while the medic got an IV started and the rotors sped up. Chopper lifting fast and true, angling up and away and Jensen....  
  
Jensen turned and took five steps and vomited, hard. Bent double and groaning, sharp sting of bile in his sinuses and across his gums, belly cramping. He spat and wiped his mouth and spat again and then he was running, Cooper right beside him. Running back to his men – back to the fight. Running as hard as he could.  
  
  
_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, DC, April, 1970.  
  
"I'm calling to inform you, ma'am, that your son, Private Jared Padalecki, has been wounded in action –"_  
  
  
"Jared, it's Mama, can you hear me? I'm here now, baby, we're all here."  
  
"I wanna go home, Mama, please, I wanna go home...."  
  
  
  
  
_University of Texas at San Antonio, 1604 Campus, San Antonio, Texas. May, 1983.  
  
Mostly, I just wanted to tell you how much you inspired me, and that I pretty much owe you everything. Maybe you can have my first born? But, seriously...I learned so much in your class and I just wanted to tell you thank you, from the bottom of my heart.  
  
Matthew Carlson_  
  
  
Jared smiled down at the letter in his hands, shaking his head a little. Matt Carlson had been the most stubborn and obnoxious kid he'd had in his five years of teaching. Stubborn, obnoxious – brilliant. Jared hadn't done a thing except make him shut up long enough to actually hear somebody else's voice.  
  
"Stupid kid," Jared said.  
  
"You know, talking to yourself like that's the first sign."  
  
"First sign of what?" Jared asked. He looked up, squinting. Whoever it was was between him and the sun, the bright spring rays coming over the person's shoulder and totally blinding Jared. He grimaced, putting up his hand. "Jesus."  
  
"Sorry, I...here, lemme move." Whoever it was shuffled over beside Jared and crouched down, and Jared rubbed his eyes for a few seconds, willing the dancing green spots to go away.  
  
"It's cool; I can probably get a Seeing Eye dog," Jared said with a little grin. "Man. Okay." Jared looked over at the person beside him, blinking. Taking in the faded black t-shirt with a worn fatigue shirt over that, the sleeves ripped off and the pockets bare of any name or service tape. Scarred knuckles, tanned, muscled forearms and the beaded chain of dog tags showing against the smooth column of a throat. Stubble and a touch of sunburn and crow's feet webbing out from green, green eyes.  
  
"Ss...Sergeant Ackles?"  
  
"Hey, JT."  
  
" _Jensen_ ," Jared said, and he felt like he'd been punched. Felt the air going out of his lungs, felt the world tilt under him, a moment of terrifying vertigo.  
  
"JT? Fuck, you okay? Man, I knew this was a fucking mistake, I – shit, I'll just – I'll go, I –"  
  
"Don't you fucking dare," Jared snarled. His hand shot out, latching onto Jensen's wrist, fingers sinking into muscle and bone. Hurting him, probably, but Jared didn't care. "Don't you...dare, don't you...you just.... _God_ , God damnit –"  
  
"Christ, put your head between your knees, JT, you look like you're gonna stroke out or something."  
  
"God, you _bastard_ ," Jared said, and yanked. Hard. He had plenty of muscle under his suit coat and button-down. He yanked Jensen right over into him, in reach of his other hand and then he was tangling his fingers in hair that was still almost Marine short. Fisting the other in the green-black cotton of Jensen's t-shirt and dragging that mouth, that God damn mouth right down to his.  
  
Jensen made a funny little squeak of sheer surprise and then his mouth was on Jared's and.... He tasted the same. Smoke and salt and whiskey, his lips still chapped, the back of his neck so warm under Jared's hand. Jared wanted to sink his teeth in and just... _devour_ , he wanted to never let go – never let it end.  
  
So he pulled back and brought his fist up in an awkward, half-assed punch that nevertheless connected and sent Jensen sprawling to the concrete. Jared jerked his wheelchair around to face Jensen. "God. You – what the hell? What the hell, Jensen? I got _one_ letter from you! One!" Jared realized he was yelling – students were staring – but he didn't care. He didn't care one bit. "Some damn stupid-ass bullcrap about you being _bad_ for me and how you couldn't make me relive the God damn war and.... What the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
Jensen stared at him, astonished. Sprawled on his ass, the worn soles of his biker boots showing. "Everything's wrong with me, I guess! Fuck, JT, what'd you expect?"  
  
" _Expect_? I expected you to – to talk to me! To write me sometimes, hell – would have been nice if you'd come to see me! You were my best God damn friend, Jensen!"  
  
Jensen pushed up from the sidewalk, dusting half-heartedly at the seat of his jeans. "No, I wasn't. Was I?"  
  
"Jesus. You're a God damn idiot. Get over here."  
  
"You gonna hit me again?"  
  
"Maybe. _God_. Jensen, what the hell?"  
  
Jensen stood there for a moment, just looking down at Jared, and then he crossed his ankles and folded to the ground Indian-style, hands on his knees. There was a hole in the left knee of his jeans and his fingers worked at it, picking at the fuzz of fraying threads. "I just...JT, I'm sorry, I.... It was just really...fucked up for a while, you know? I was in-country five more months after...and I tried to re-up but they wouldn't let me, said three tours was two too many and I had to go home and...." Jensen stared fixedly at the hole in his jeans, his blunt-nailed fingers twisting in the threads and Jared stared at him.  
  
Cataloguing every difference, every new thing. The nick in the curve of his right ear – a scar, silver and jagged along his right forearm. Two fingers on Jensen's left hand were crooked – broken and badly set, Jared guessed – and his shoulders were a little broader. Same push of bone at the top, same sharp line to his jaw. Silver hair threading through the brown at Jensen's temples and Jared wanted to reach out and touch them.  
  
Smooth them away.  
  
"Why didn't you come find me, man? Why didn't you...why didn't you talk to me? I wrote you all the time, I...God, spilled my guts to you, Jensen."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Jensen looked guilty – miserable – and he reached over and dragged the worn knapsack Jared hadn't even noticed out from under the bench Jared had parked next to. "I read 'em all, man, I did, I just...couldn't...." Jensen pulled a bundle of yellowing envelopes half out of the depths of the knapsack and Jared could see his own handwriting scrawled across the fronts – the crooked stamps and the smudged postmarks.  
  
"Jesus, you still have all those?" Jared felt a bizarre rush of embarrassment, remembering what he'd said in some of those letters. The despair and the desire and the fury, the hate and the useless, helpless love.  
  
"Yeah. Course I do! What, you think I'd just throw 'em away?"  
  
"Why not? You didn't answer any of 'em." Jared could hear the venom in his tone and the sudden stricken look that crossed Jensen's face made his gut twist in guilt and sympathy.  
  
"I know. I'm sorry, man. I really am. I...I just – I wanted to see how you were. See if...if you were doin' okay. I guess I'll...I gotta get going, huh? I'll just –"  
  
"Jensen," Jared said, his voice coming out more like a growl than anything else, and Jensen stopped fussing with the buckles on the knapsack and looked up at him. All but flinching, something more than guilt in his expression. Sorrow, longing – loneliness. "Jensen, if you think you can pop into my life for five damn minutes and then just _go away_ , just like that, then...then..."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Then you're the dumbest motherfucker I've ever met."  
  
Jensen just sat there, twisting and twisting the strap on the knapsack until Jared was pretty sure he was going to twist it right off. Then he sighed and pushed his hand back through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made Jared's chest hurt. "I'm not...like you, JT, you know? I mean...shit, you got – you're like this, in that chair...." Jensen glared for a moment at the sleek aluminum. "And you're doin' good, you're doin' so fucking...good. Cooper said –"  
  
"You still talk to Cooper?"  
  
Jensen's gaze flickered up to his, quick and bright and gone again. "Yeah. He told me where you where. He keeps track of everybody. But Jared...I'm fucked up, okay? I've been tryin' so fucking hard, for so fucking long and I'm still not...I'm nothing like you and I don't wanna...I don't wanna drag you down, okay?" Jensen looked up at Jared, his expression pleading – willing Jared to understand. "Cooper said you were a professor, and you were doin' really good, and I thought – I thought you could probably stand to see me for a day, you know? But I couldn't...I can't _be_ here. I just can't."  
  
"Who says?" Jared asked, and hated that his voice sounded so small – so damn hurt. "Who says you can't?"  
  
"I do, man. _I_ say. I mean – this is a good day, you know? This is a really good day but they're not always good. They're pretty...they're pretty fucked up sometimes, you know?" Jensen laughed, short and shaky and ugly. "Fucked up a lot of the time."  
  
"And, what – I'm some paragon of normality and perfection or something?" Jared wheeled himself a few inches closer, planting his elbows on his thighs and leaning down, getting as close to Jensen as he could. "If you think you got the corner on bad days, man, you are one hundred percent wrong."  
  
"JT –"  
  
"You think I don't get pissed off? You think I don't have my days when I just wanna...hide inside? Kick this fucking chair down the stairs and crawl into a hole? You think everything's just sunshine and puppies? Then you really _are_ a dumbass."  
  
"You're a _teacher_ , JT! God, you went to – to college and you teach here now and you got a _house_ , I saw your house –"  
  
"You spied on me?" Jensen stopped in mid-word, choking on whatever he was going to say next and Jared had to laugh at his caught-out, little-boy expression.  
  
"I thought I'd just drive by, you know...see the picket fence an' all. But I couldn't...I had to see _you_."  
  
"Yeah? How come?"  
  
Jensen sighed and shook his head – looked around them for a moment, eyes narrowing against the sun. Taking in the sweep of lawn and sidewalk, the columns and trees that were leafed in glowing green. So different from the hot, dense vegetation of the jungle – somehow so much lighter. He looked back at Jared, finally, and there was a liquid sheen in his eyes. Tears held in check and Jared had never once seen Jensen cry. When he spoke, Jensen's voice cracked, stumbling over the words. "Well, 'cause...I missed you, man. I missed you."  
  
"Damnit, Jensen...." Jared caught Jensen's shirt in his fingertips again – caught and twisted and pulled and Jensen came up easily onto his knees – easily into Jared's kiss, sun's warmth and the rub of stubble, edge of a ragged nail catching in Jared's hair as their mouths pressed hard and close for long, long moments.  
  
"Can't believe you've got such fuckin' hippie hair, man," Jensen murmured, his lips brushing against Jared's and Jared laughed softly.  
  
"Can't believe you're here. You real, Jensen? This real?"  
  
Jensen pulled back far enough to catch Jared's gaze and hold it, and his eyes were like jade lit from within. Fathomless, bright and clear. "Yeah, honey. It is."

 

**Author's Note:**

> 'Beans and motherfuckers' = ham and lima beans, a c-ration or MRE dinner.


End file.
